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"Is there any better car?" I reply.
"That's debatable," he answers.
"Not to me. You got an open space or what?"
"Yeah. Come on over. I'll lock it up nice and tight," he states.
"On my way." I hang up and grab my keys. I go into the garage, slide into my Porsche, and make the trip to my old neighborhood.
My chest tightens as it always does whenever I come here. A trip down memory lane is the last thing I'm ever interested in, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The only way to take Hugh down is to access his offshore accounts and the funds inside them. Once I have that, the rest is going to be fun.
Now that I know what he's done, I look forward to watching his demise. It's something I never contemplated before his betrayal.
Hugh should have known not to fuck with me. One thing I don't do is forgive and forget. Revenge isn't something new to me. He's seen the extent I'll go to right a wrong done to me. He's witnessed me take others down before. It's why I don't understand why he'd even attempt this. He has to know I'd find out and come after him.
He's too arrogant.
I deal with the pileup on the expressway, inching through traffic, with my thoughts racing. By the time I get to Compton, my desire for revenge grips me tighter than ever before.
I reverse into the driveway and text Jones.
Me: I'm here.
The cedar door, which looks too upscale for Compton except for this block Jones fixed up, opens. He takes a final drag of his cigarette, then tosses it on the ground. He grinds it out with his sneaker.
I back up the Porsche until I'm inside, get out, and he closes the garage. He slaps my back, then opens the entrance. "You made good time."
I step into the house and grunt. "It's a mess out there like always."
He leads us into the biggest room. It's dark, aside from the green glow from the dozens of monitors secured on one wall. Blackout shades cover the window, and Jones rolls a second chair next to his.
I sit and say, "I need you to hack into Hugh Gallow's network."
Shock fills his expression, then he mutters, "Always knew you shouldn't trust that rich bastard. What's he done?"
If I hadn't just discovered my partner's been fucking me, I would have called him out for his stereotyping and stuck up for Hugh. Jones is a self-made millionaire, but he's never trusted anyone who came from money.
My gut dives. I stay quiet, not even wanting to speak the words.
"I need to know what I'm looking for," he asserts.
My pulse pounds harder in my neck. I confess, "He's stealing funds from the firm. My accountant said the money's going to some offshore accounts. I need the account details and the ability to get into them and move the money."
Jones whistles, then mutters, "Sorry, man."
"How long do you think it'll take?" I ask.
He scratches his head, then answers, "Not sure. It depends on how encrypted everything is, and the banks will take more time. But once you have access, you need to be smart. If you move that money, make sure it disappears."
"That's why I have you," I declare.
He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes turn to slits.
"Is there a problem?" I ask.
"You're talking about money laundering."
"So? Since when do you do anything on the up-and-up?"
